


"Sing To Me", begged the Sheep

by Random_ag



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: (im gifting you this too idk tell me if its annoying), Based on an idea by adobe-outdesign (adobe-beforeeffects) of a weird inky Wally, Body Horror, Thanks Joey, Trauma, theyre just traumatized boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 18:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14624712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: Two old workers meet again.





	"Sing To Me", begged the Sheep

It was the mopping sound that caught him. It had been quite some time since he had heard someone mopping.

Not that this place didn’t need to be cleaned, on the contrary. It would have been great if the janitor had still been around; but in the long run the poor fella would have ended up insane, or, knowing him, he would have stormed off as soon as he saw just how much work was waiting for him, yelling threats to quit and curses left and right.

Heh. Was he missing him? Sammy almost chuckled, his legs splashing against the floor boards as he went to check who was behind that useless cleaning. Of all people, he surely wasn’t going to be missing…

He stopped. And stared.

Two skinny arms poorly moving a mop in an already clean spot of the room. Legs coated in ink, melting on the wooden pavement in a black puddle. A tape recorder stuck on shoulders, taking up the space of neck and head, with audio strings spewing out of it and black liquid soaked in the shirt under it.

Dark overalls.

“Wally?”

The creature jumped. His recorder-face looked nowhere. Trembling, a hand went to the play button.

“ _Sammy-?_ ” he called. Immediately, he switched to recording, and waited. A soft static started to come out of the object.

“I’m here.” Sammy replied, moving towards him. Wally turned a little, extending his arm to reach for him. He must have been blind, the ex-music director realized as he grabbed it gently: “I’m here.”

The janitor shivered at the sudden cold touch. “ _Ink._ ” he noted, testing the Prophet’s skin under his fingertips, “ _Messy. Acetone- in- closet._ ”

“No! No, it’s… It’s fine. I’m fine. There’s… There’s no need for that, sheep.” Sammy was quick to say. He wasn’t sure what effects that terrible substance could have caused to his prison. It could have melt it away, or it could have melt  _him_  away. Trying wasn’t worth it.

Wally stood for a moment; then, a cacophonic “ _Sh-eeeee-p-?_ ” came reluctantly out of his recorder. Without giving Sammy time to say anything, he swung his other arm around: “ _Where-? Why- shhhhh-eeee-p- here-? Joey- lost his mind! Joey- Joey- Joey- JOey- JOey- JOEy- J **OEy- JOEY-**_ ** _JOEY-_** ”

The boy fell to his knees, repeating the name each time louder as if he was screaming it. The music director slithered his arm away from his iron grip, taken by surprise, and reached for his axe. As a piercing static rose from the janitor, he swung it down on his leg.

“ _NO! NO, PLEASE, I WON’T TELL, I WON’T TELL!_ ”

That was… too clear. Too fluent.

Wally trembled fiercely on the floor, static and screams erupting through his head’s subsitute and leg bleeding ink. He begged and begged not to be killed, not to be sacrificed. He sounded like he was in tears.

There were no sudden cuts. No words made up from other sounds.

Sammy bent over him, trying to soothe him, but the janitor flinched and screamed louder at every touch, prey of a threat he couldn’t see nor hear.

Finally, the prophet managed to press the recording button: “Wally, calm down! Joey’s not here, alright? He’s not here. There’s just you, and me. No one else.” he held the other’s shoulder in a comforting manner, “Calm down. There.”

“ _LLLLLLLLL-ee-g-… hhhur-t-t-t-t-ts-…_ ”

“It’s alright, it’s alright. You’re gonna be fine. Sit here.”

Wally clenched his shoulder; his still solid fingers drowned in it.

“ _Iiiii-nkk- m-m-m-messyy._ ”

“Yes, yes, I know. But I’m fine. Really. Calm down, now, little sheep. Is there anything that helps you calm down?”

The janitor warbled something. Sammy listened closely: the boy was patching up pieces of words and intonations. Finally, he started to understand. It was a song. One he knew very well, too.

“ _Sss-ing._ ” the younger muttered, “ _P-p-l-ease. Tape- closet. Not- my. Lost- my stupid keys! Ss-so-so-so-rry._ ”

Well, that was the least of their concerns.

The Prophet helped him get up. For a moment, he considered ending their pain. Sacrifice the janitor to his Lord, and stop the suffering for both of them.

But then, he thought. He looked at the boy: no, he concluded. He wouldn’t have been a worthy offering. Too scared, and exhausted. Too imperfect.

He adjusted his grip on him, and, with the janitor’s buzzing sobs in his ears, he stomped around the studio to find the “tape closet” Wally had talked about.

It was almost easy.

It had shelves overflowing with all sorts of tapes. Most were labeled: the voice of Jack Fain, Norman Polk, Grant Cohen, Henry (the lastname had been scratched away, furiously), Susie Campbell. A bunch of them layed on the floor, as if they had been thrown there. Sammy sat the young shaking man on a small box and examined them out of curiousity.

They were marked with Joey’s distinctive handwriting, the one he used to sign - all curves and suave, in a way. Several had titles focused on belief.

Then there was one. ’Will Norman learn his lesson?’, it read.

A sudden shiver overtook his spine. Norman had gone missing, one day. Apparently, he had had enough. Fired himself. But his wife had come in around a month after he left, crying and screaming, threatning to make Joey rot in jail for the rest of his sad, pathetic life if he hadn’t given her her husband back.

He grabbed another: 'An angel is born!’, ‘Just a black sheep’, 'Three death-lasting pals’.

He could feel something terrible, as if what was inside of it was so horrendous it managed to sorround the cassettes with a dark halo.

He found a really dirty one, at the end of the pile.

 

‘A gift for you, Wally’.

 

“ _Sammy-?_ ”

He buried the tape under the others: “I’m here.” he reassured Wally.

“ _S-ing- p-l-ease._ ”

“I’m looking for it.”

It wasn’t a long search. The cassette had a privileged spot on the lower shelf. The music director picked it up, careful not to cover it in ink, and gently pressed it in the janitor’s open palm.

Wally’s trembling hands ejected the tape that currently was in the recorder and changed it with the new one in a matter of seconds.

As soon as he pressed play his body slumped, losing all tension. His head dangled on the side and gently rested against the wall. Sammy could almost see a big relieved grin emerge on the emotionless object.

He stood there, listenting as well. No wonder it had such a soothing effect on the other: it was a lovely song.

And Wally had always loved the Prophet’s singing voice.

Sadly, he had work to do.

Sammy closed the closet door, quietly to not disturb the music. His legs splashed on the wooden floor as he left the boy in a bubble of calm, singing along to his own fading vocals.

 

## “Sad as I can be, hear me willow… and weep for me.”


End file.
